


the mockingjay

by epoenine



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Bombing and Fire, Contains spoilers for The Hunger Games, Enjolras-centric, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Hallucinations, I'll explain more in the notes, Just a trigger warning for people, M/M, Mentions of Death, Set in Mockingjay, Violence, Weapons, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire used to think Enjolras was wonderful, but those days are gone. Now he knows Enjolras, knows what he's capable of being. Cruel, cold, unkind. Violent. Manipulative. Deadly. Enjolras disdains him for it.<br/>The Hunger Games/Les Miserables crossover. Can be read without prior knowledge of The Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mockingjay

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! You do not need to have read The Hunger Games to read this fic, but I'll explain some things here anyway. It may contain spoilers.  
> This fic is set in Mockingjay, and it takes off right when they're rescuing Peeta. Panem is a dystopian world, set in North America. District 13 is one of the districts the Capitol owns. The Capitol runs the whole show.  
> Tracker jackers are wasps with a powerful sting. Morphling is a drug used to dull pain. Propos are just propoganda films. Nightlock is a pill that was designed to kill you, if need be.  
> Enjolras is Katniss Everdeen, Grantaire is Peeta Mellark, Jehan is based on Johanna Mason, Marius is based on Annie Cresta, and Courfeyrac is more or less Finnick Odair. Combeferre is sort of Haymitch and a little bit of Gale. Cosette is Delly Cartwright. Lamarque is President Coin, Mabeuf is Mayor Paylor, Myriel is Plutarch, and Gillenormand is President Snow. Joly is one of the doctors. Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Eponine aren't any specific characters.

* * *

“I want to go to the Capitol,” Enjolras says, eyes defiant. “I want to be part of the rescue team.” He should go easy on Combeferre, because not only taking Grantaire and Marius, they have Jehan, too.

“They’re already gone,” Combeferre replies.

“What do you mean they’re _gone_? When did they leave, I’ll catch up,” Enjolras says, looking around.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” Feuilly says, firmly. “We just have to wait. Courfeyrac’s going mad with worry, why don’t you entertain him.” And with that, he’s gone.

“He’s right,” Combeferre says.

“Who is part of the rescue team?” Enjolras asks, gritting his teeth.

The answer comes, and Enjolras learns that he should go easy on all of them. Bahorel, Eponine, Musichetta, Bossuet--They’re all off to save Grantaire and Marius and Jehan, being tortured in the Capitol. Feuilly is on edge, Cosette’s been jumpy, Joly is fretting.

They could all die today, and it would be Enjolras’ fault.

“Please, Combeferre, we have to do something,” Enjolras says, almost desperate now. “I can’t just sit here when it’s my fault they’re in the Capitol anyway.”

“I’ll talk to Lamarque, but there’s no way he’s going to budge. You’re too valuable to send out there, just to save, what, three lives?” Combeferre sighs, turning away. “Give Courfeyrac something to distract himself with.”

Enjolras sits on the hospital bed next to Courfeyrac, who stares up at the ceiling blankly.

“Courf,” Enjolras says, and he gets an almost reaction. “Remember the knots?” He shows the man lying in the bed his fingers, raw from retying rope over and over again. “Show me some more.”

Courfeyrac sits up, wordlessly, and grabs his rope from the small table next to his bed. His fingers move fast, twisting and pulling the knitted fabric. Enjolras tries to do the same, but he can’t keep up with Courfeyrac, so he gives up after some time.

Without emotion, Enjolras stands up to seek out Joly. He finds him by the infirmary, bandaging a young girl with a scraped knee.

“What’s up?” Joly asks, nonchalantly, though his fingers are shaking as much as his voice. “Worried?”

He has it the worst out of everyone, most likely. Musichetta and Bossuet are going into what seems to be a death trap.

“A bit,” Enjolras says.

“Listen,” Joly starts, “before you go to sleep tonight they’ll either be dead or with us.” He pauses, looking at Enjolras with sincerity. “Isn’t that more than we could ask for?”

Enjolras nods, and then swallows down his comment.

“How are your injuries?” Joly asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I’ll live,” Enjolras admits, shrugging his shoulder.

Enjolras isn’t asked if he’d like to be sedated, but there’s a sharp pinch in his arm, and Combeferre is catching him while he falls. After that, there’s just black.

* * *

“Enjolras.”

Feuilly’s voice cuts through the haze. Enjolras opens his eyes, squinting them against the harsh bright light.

“Enjolras, they’re back.”

With that, Enjolras is sitting up, standing up, walking towards the crowd of people by the door.

He sees a figure with buzzed hair rush at Combeferre, tears spilling from both of their eyes. Enjolras feels a twist of jealousy, because anyone who looked at them could see that Jehan and Combeferre would die without each other.

Enjolras spots Marius, pushing through the crowd to get to Courfeyrac. They collide, arms wrapped around each other tight enough to be painful. Marius is naked, save for a thin sheet, and there’s purple all over his shoulders and arms.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, his mind still fuzzy from the sedative. “Where is he?”

Feuilly answers. “Joly said he was back there, behind the curtain. He’s a little messed up from the--” Enjolras rushes towards that pale blue sheet separating Grantaire from the rest of District 13.

Enjolras pulls the curtain back, and his lips are just forming Grantaire’s name.

Fingers close around his throat. He can’t see a thing.

* * *

“We’re trying out a new method,” Combeferre says. “Grantaire’s been hijacked. He’s been given the venom from the tracker jacker stings to induce hallucinations and nightmares.” Enjolras follows Combeferre through the narrow hallways. “We need you at the hospital, we're going to test something out.”

Enjolras follows, and people give him double takes. Purple and blue flower on his throat, in the shape of Grantaire’s hands.

“Will I be in the room with him?” Enjolras asks.

“No, no. Cosette knows him from home, we’re going to see if she can get any old, good memories to resurface.” Combeferre ushers him behind the curtain, motioning for Joly to come with him.

Grantaire is behind glass, staring at Cosette. They can hear what she’s saying, and what Grantaire’s answers are, but Enjolras knows that they both can’t see or hear Combeferre or Joly.

“Bahorel is outside the door, in case he goes after Cosette. We just wanted to try it out--see if pushing all of the bad thoughts away with help bring back the good ones,” Joly explains.

“Remember when we were kids, Grantaire?” Cosette asks, tears welling in her eyes, Her voice is muffled, most likely from the glass. “Remember when you gave me those paintings on Christmas?”

“I remember.” Grantaire’s voice is hoarse and gruff, but hearing it makes Enjolras’ heart lurch. “What happened? Why aren’t we in 12, painting pictures?”

Cosette hesitates. “There was an...an accident. But it’s all over now, and everyone’s nice to us here.”

“Great,” Combeferre huffs out.

“What kind of an accident?” Grantaire asks. “Why aren’t we home?”

“Nevermind that. I miss home, too. But it’s wonderful here, I promise.” Cosette’s breathing shallows; Grantaire can sense she’s holding back something.

“Tell me about the accident, Cosette.”

“It was--There was bad things happening. Bombs--”

“Oh, no. Here it comes,” Combeferre groans.

“Fire. We couldn’t stay.” Cosette flinches. “You’ll like it here, though. We can draw, as much as you want.”

“Twelve burned down. Fire. Because of him--It’s because of Enjolras.” Fear flashes in Grantaire’s eyes. “It’s _Enjolras_ ’ fault, he’s a monster! He’s cruel, he tried to kill me.”

“No, he didn’t. He saved you, Grantaire.” Cosette lets a tear spill over. “He said some mean things but he doesn’t mean them, not really.”

“Damn,” Joly mutters under his breath.

Enjolras is silent, staring at the glass emotionless.

“He’s a _muttation_! He’ll kill you all.”

“No, he won’t, he wouldn’t--” Cosette’s removed from the room by Bahorel, and she’s crying, backing up slowly.

“A mutt! He’ll _kill_ you with his words, rip your hearts out and step on them.”

Enjolras knows that Grantaire’s talking in the literal and the metaphorical sense.

“I can’t stay here anymore,” Enjolras says to Combeferre.

“Where would you go?”

“Two. Send me to District 2,” Enjolras replies.

“Fighting is still going on there, Enjolras. You sure?” Bahorel asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Enjolras nods, numbly.

Combeferre just sighs, but he sees Enjolras off, albeit reluctantly.

* * *

“You’re going to blow up the Nut?” Enjolras asks, bewildered. “That’s an old mine, it’ll be exactly like a coal mining accident.”

“I have to,” Lamarque says, his voice brisk.

“Those men and women could have ended up there unwillingly, you don’t know.” Enjolras looks at him with rage in his eyes.

“Sacrifice is always needed in a war,” is all Lamarque says. After a pregnant pause, he continues. “Anyway, I’m not _going_ to blow up the Nut. It’s already happening. Bahorel’s in the square, waiting for the people to escape through the train tunnel.”

Enjolras runs, trying to make it to the square in time.

“Stop!” he shouts. “Don’t shoot.” The man smells like smoke and fire. He raises the gun to Enjolras’ head. Enjolras sets his bow down, showing that he means no harm. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” the man says.

“I don’t have one.” Enjolras has done it, he’s dropped the bomb. He’s surprised them, caught them off guard. “So do it. Kill me, do the Capitol a favor. I don’t care anymore, I’m done killing off their slaves.”

“I’m not a slave,” he replies.

“You are. If you shoot me, you’re just serving them. I was a slave, that’s why I killed those tributes.” Enjolras pauses. “I did what they wanted. I killed Cabuc when he killed that boy. That boy killed Azelma. That’s all they are, the Capitol’s games they want us to play in.” Another pause. “Well, I’m done being a piece in their Games.”

Grantaire on the rooftop the night before the 74th Games. That memory floods his mind right now.

“Keep talking,” Lamarque murmurs from behind Enjolras.

“Why are we succumbing to the Capitol? Why aren’t we fighting back?” Enjolras asks the crowd. “Now is the time to take revenge. Now is the time to take back our Panem. Why are we fighting each other when we should be fighting _them_?”

“I don’t know,” the man admits, not taking his gun away from Enjolras’ head.

“Who is the _real_ enemy?” Enjolras asks, loudly. “Who is the one who’s been using us? The Capitol! The rebels are _not_ your enemy and they never were. We need to take down the Capitol, and we need everyone in this district to do it!”

Enjolras is thrown backwards, a bullet just grazing his ribs, the left side.

He’s out cold for the third time since he joined Thirteen.

* * *

The world is fuzzy and Enjolras cannot see the memory clearly. The drug of the morphling makes his world not have any hard edges, no harsh sounds or bright lights.

Or, that just might be Grantaire’s voice, soothing and calm.

“ _Always_ ,” Grantaire murmurs. It’s the same word he’d said just after Enjolras broke his ankle and his tailbone, again, groggy with morphling.

Enjolras feels numb and hollow, with the morphling there to take away intense emotions. He doesn’t feel longing.

The morphling doesn’t dull the pain on his left side, so that’s what he wakes up to.

Jehan is there to greet him. All pointy bones and hard edges. His hair is buzzed, the beautiful ginger gone. Enjolras doesn’t ask why.

“Morning,” Jehan says, his voice rough. He detaches the morphling drip, inserting it into his own arm. “They cut back my supply two days ago, I’ve been borrowing from you. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Enjolras doesn’t mind. Not when Jehan was there in the Capitol, getting tortured to death because of him.

Jehan lets out a sigh of relief as the pain medication enters him. “Drug yourself and paint flowers on your body. Sounds like a good life. Maybe the druggies had a point.” He pauses. “Joly’s been coming around, helping me recover. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, not with what I’ve been through. Combeferre knows, too. That I’m a lost cause.” Again, a pause. “How about you, Mockingjay? How’ve you been holding up?”

“I got shot.”

“I can see that. Don’t think you’re totally immobile, though. The bullet didn’t even touch you.” Jehan pats Enjolras’ leg.

“Broken ribs, then.”

“Nope. Just bruised.” Jehan stands up. “I’ll go talk to Combeferre, then. There’s been things that I’ve missed.” Enjolras nods, and that sends pain shooting throughout his whole body. “Easy, there. You got one hell of a headache from your fall.”

Enjolras smiles, glad to see that at least Jehan is making light of things.

* * *

"We need to talk," is all Combeferre says before walking away; Enjolras is obviously supposed to follow. So, he does.

"What's happening to him?" Enjolras asks, turning his face away from the cameras.

Combeferre does the same. "Nobody knows. Joly doesn't know, I don't know. Sometimes he's almost fine, and then, for no reason, he's triggered. Painting is a sort of--It's therapy, for him. We got him to do Thirteen's seal, then Jehan, pieces of home, if you'd believe it. And then..."

"What?" Enjolras snaps. He doesn't mean to.

"It's just been you. Over and over. You in a cave, a cut right over your eye. You by the river, washing something. You shooting an arrow."

"The 74th Games," Enjolras answers immediately.

"No, there's more. You in a Mockingjay costume, by the beach in 75th's arena, sleeping on a train."

Ah, the train. Longing does send sharp pinpoints of pain to Enjolras' heart. He can remember it clearly, the way Grantaire held him and what they'd whispered to each other.

Enjolras takes a deep breath.

"Any more?"

"Not anything different from what he's been doing," Combeferre explains. "I saw him today."

"You talked to him? Face-to-face?"

"It didn't go as well as expected. He's angry, of course." Combeferre pauses, searching Enjolras' eyes. "He says he'd like to see you."

Enjolras bites his lip, stopping whatever harsh comment from spilling out. This wasn't what's supposed to happen, Enjolras is supposed to be done with Grantaire, done trying to figure him out. The moment he got shot Enjolras gave Grantaire away and welcomed the revolution. His plan was not supposed to hear _He says he'd like to see you_ and have it send hope spiraling through his body.

But, well, that seems to be the case.

At midnight Enjolras stands outside Grantaire's cell. Hospital room. They had to wait for Mabeuf to finish getting footage of Thirteen.

Enjolras wishes he could meet with Grantaire privately, and that Combeferre and Mabeuf and Bahorel wouldn't be there.

He slowly opens the door. Enjolras finds blue eyes immediately. There's restraints on Grantaire's arms, but he's not fighting them. A tube that will shoot a drug to sedate him is attached to the crevice of his elbow. Grantaire observes Enjolras with a wary look, like he's sure Enjolras will be the one to lash out--like a dog waiting for the beating.

"Hello," Enjolras says, and his tone is anything but soft.

"Hey," he responds.

His voice is rough and low and it's almost his voice but it's not because there's insanity in it.

"Combeferre said you wanted to talk to me," Enjolras starts, since there's nothing else to say.

"First off, I haven't seen you except for, what, about thirty seconds. Just wanted to look at you, for starters," he says, his eyes raking up and down Enjolras' body. "You're not very big. Or pretty, for that matter."

Enjolras _knows_ that Grantaire been through a lot, but that pang of jealousy hits his heart again. Grantaire used to think he was.

"You've looked better," Enjolras retorts.

"Oh, I was right, too. You say a lot of cruel things," Grantaire says, his smile twisted. "I deserve at least a little bit of sympathy, after all I've been through, you think?"

"We've all been through a lot," is all Enjolras can say. "I'll just go--"

He reaches the door and then Grantaire speaks. "Enjolras. I remember about the bread."

Today is just full of memories.

"They showed you the tape of me talking about it," Enjolras says.

"No. I just remember," he answers.

"What do you remember?"

"You, the rain, pale and sick and dying," he says softly. "Digging in the trash cans. Me burning the bread. My mother hitting me. I threw the bread to you."

"That's true," Enjolras replies. "I didn't know how to thank you."

"The next day, after school. I tried to catch your eye, but you just kept looking away. Then, you picked a dandelion," he says, memories flooding each of their minds. Enjolras nods. "I must have loved you a lot."

"You did." His voice catches and he turns it into a cough.

"Did you love me?" he asks. Enjolras drops his eyes.

"Everyone says I did. Everyone says that's why Gillenormand tortured you. To break me," Enjolras says.

"That's not an answer," he replies. "When they...used the tracker jacker venom on me, they showed me tapes. It looked like you were trying to kill me with the tracker jackers."

"I was trying to kill all of you," Enjolras says. "You had me treed."

"Then, there was a lot of kissing. Didn't seem like you liked it, on your end. Did you? Like kissing me?" Grantaire asks.

"Sometimes," Enjolras answers. "You know people are watching us now."

"I know." Grantaire laughs, harshly, leaning his head against the wall. "They were right. You are capable of being terrible." Grantaire sighs. “I need a drink. You’d think they’d give me something to help with the hallucinations.”

"You could be so much more than you are," Enjolras mutters, anger bubbling inside of him.

Grantaire laughs again, voice hollow. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?"

Enjolras leaves the room, and nobody protests. He continues, down the hall. Through the living quarters. He tries to find someplace to sit for a while--somewhere where he can fall asleep easily.

Then it hits him. Why he's so upset.

Grantaire used to think Enjolras was wonderful, but those days are gone. Now he knows Enjolras, knows what he's capable of being. Cruel, cold, unkind. Violent. Manipulative. Deadly.

Enjolras disdains him for it.

* * *

They leave for the Capitol three days later. Jehan stays behind. He couldn't get past the fear of drowning--Combeferre lets it slide that that's what they used to torture him. Sprayed Jehan with a hose and then electrocution. Enjolras can only feel guilt, weighing down his limbs.

Cosette and Eponine stay behind, too. Only Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel go.

And then Grantaire arrives.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras says, anger clearly present in his voice. “Why did Lamarque send him? Does he want me dead?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre admits. “Maybe Lamarque wants him there when you kill the President. It’ll be good for the propos.”

“Why, of all places, would he send Grantaire to the _Capitol_? Especially with me? Everything is going to trigger him--I’ll be dead by morning.” Enjolras huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’ll be fine, we’ll set up guards.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Enjolras says.

“No, you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure you could really shoot Grantaire,” Combeferre says, gentle, so he won’t spark something inside Enjolras.

It’s too late, he already has.

“I wouldn’t be shooting Grantaire. I’d be shoot just another mutt,” Enjolras replies. “Grantaire’s _gone_ , the Capitol took him from me. He’s just a muttation,” Enjolras repeats, almost trying to persuade himself.

“What if it were you?” Combeferre snaps, anger in his voice. “What if you were unwillingly forced to believe something, and then your whole world went upside down. What if the only person you’ve ever loved just suddenly hated you? What if you just suddenly hated them, not knowing if they were going to kill you or save you? Do you think Grantaire would treat you this way if your positions were switched?” Combeferre asks, his voice hard and cold. “No, he wouldn’t. You and me, we made a pact. That pact was to protect him, remember?” He pauses. “Try and remember.”

He walks away, joining Courfeyrac and Bahorel to tell them the plan.

* * *

“Ally.” Grantaire doesn’t spit the word. He rolls the word in his mouth, testing it out. “Friend. Lover. Fighter. Leader. Target. Revolutionary. Mutt.  Enemy. Tribute. Ally.” He pauses. “Mockingjay. I’ll add it to the list of words that describe you. It’s too bad I don’t know what’s real and what’s made up.”

“If you ask, then we’ll tell you. That’s what Marius does,” Courfeyrac says. moving away from the wall to sit by the center of the dimly lit room.

“Ask who? I can’t trust anyone anymore,” Grantaire snaps, letting his head rest on the heater behind him.

“You can trust us,” Combeferre says, softly. “We’re your friends. And friends help each other.”

It’s quiet after that. Enjolras tries to imagine what it must be like. To not know if what you’re doing is right or to not know who the enemy is. To not know if you’re loved. If the person sitting by the heater saved you or destroyed you.

Enjolras wants to tell him everything. He feels...he feels longing for what they had. He aches for Grantaire to care about him, to love him. Enjolras wants to tell him everything that happened. All of the Games and all of the times Grantaire has shown his love for him, all of the times Enjolras has almost loved him.

“Your favorite color is red,” Grantaire says, turning to Enjolras again.

“Yes.” Enjolras knows he shouldn’t leave it at that. “Yours is green.”

“Green?” he asks.

“Not bright green. Muted, more dark. Like the trees by the coal mine.” Enjolras adds, “At least, that’s what you said.”

“Oh.” He closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

More words spill out of Enjolras’ mouth and he can’t stop them. “You’re a painter. You drink a lot. You don’t believe in anything and you’re argumentative and I _like_ it. You prefer Feuilly’s bitter coffee over Jehan’s sweet tea. You’re pessimistic and cynical sceptical and nihilistic. When you paint you wear a black shirt and it’s too messy to wear out of the house. You never tie your shoelaces correctly, either.”

Enjolras turns away before he does something like cry.

* * *

In the morning, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Enjolras go out to shoot stuff down for the propos. They need footage of Enjolras actually being the Mockingjay for him here in the Capitol to do any good.

“Most of the people from Twelve died in the fire,” Grantaire is saying while Enjolras enters the room.

“Real. Less than nine hundred of you survived,” Courfeyrac answers.

“My family died in the fire,” Grantaire states.

“Real. I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac replies.

“The fire is Enjolras’ fault,” says Grantaire. Courfeyrac throws a look at Enjolras. “Real or not real? The fire is Enjolras’ fault, real or _not real_?” Grantaire repeats.

“Enjolras shot the arrow into the kink on the force field surrounding the arena. Gillenormand is the one who dropped the bombs, though,” Combeferre says, evenly.

“So, real.”

“Not necessarily,” Courfeyrac says. “He was the one who triggered it, but it’s the Capitol’s fault any of this is evening happening.”

Enjolras turns around and leaves, not ready for the attack that’s going to happen.

Instead of the flashbacks, though, Grantaire just laughs coldly. “God, I could use a drink.”

* * *

“I can’t go on like this,” Grantaire says, self hatred dripping in his voice. “I can’t be a danger to the squad. I _can’t_.”

“What do you suppose we do?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Shoot me,” he replies, immediately.

“No,” Combeferre says. “You’re too valuable. Also, it’s just giving the President what he wants. We can’t do that.”

“I just killed a member of your squad,” Grantaire says, evenly. “I’m a threat.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a threat, you can’t just die,” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras stays silent on the matter.

Grantaire sighs, clearly angry. He gets up, and when everyone flinches he raises and eyebrows. Instead of speaking, he goes for Bahorel’s handcuffs, and snaps them on his wrists.

“Now how are you going to fight?” Courfeyrac asks.

"I'm not trusted with a gun anyway," Grantaire says. "So it's fine. I just want to make sure another person doesn't die. Their life isn't worth mine."

"Why do you deprecate yourself? You're more than you think you are," Enjolras says, his eyes narrowing.

"Thanks, that's always wonderful to hear coming from you," Grantaire says, sarcasm in his voice.

That shuts Enjolras up. He moves to the kitchen, trying to find food. Bahorel accompanies him, and they find some after a few minutes, stashed in a cupboard underneath the stairs.

There's canned soup, and just as Enjolras is about to reach for plain chicken broth, Grantaire holds out a dented can.

"Here," he says. Enjolras takes it, reading the label with furrowed eyebrows.

It's lamb stew. Of all things. As he pops open the top, he's reminded of nights spent in a cave, rain dripping on stones. He's reminded of Grantaire with that horrible fever, but the Grantaire that was still in love with Enjolras.

Not only does the Capitol look like the arena, what with it's traps and swarming tracker jackers. It tastes like it, too.

"We need to leave," Combeferre says, interrupting Enjolras' thoughts. "It's only a matter of time before they find out, trace our steps. Rooftops won't do us any good. Bahorel, what do you think?"

"The street is out," he replies.

"Underground," Grantaire suggests.

It's the only option left. They clean up the place, throwing away the trash and trying to get the door back on its hinges. Within minutes, they're ready to leave.

"I'm not going," Grantaire says, still stubborn.

"People will find you," Courfeyrac says.

"Then leave me a nightlock pill. I won't take it unless it's necessary, promise." Grantaire looks from Combeferre to Courfeyrac to Bahorel. Never at Enjolras.

"Not an option," Combeferre says. Of course he wouldn't give Grantaire a pill that he could kill himself with.

"I don't care if I die!" Grantaire yells. Finally, he turns to meet Enjolras' blue eyes. "Enjolras, _please_. I want to be out of this, see? I don't want to endanger you anymore."

Enjolras is confused as to why he can't just put the poor man out of his misery.

"We're wasting our time. Are you coming along willingly or will we have to knock you out?" Enjolras asks, his voice cold.

Grantaire curls inward around himself for a second, then gets to his feet.

"Should we uncuff him?" Combeferre asks.

" _No_!" Grantaire snarls, drawing his wrists up by his neck.

Combeferre looks to Enjolras, waiting for a response. He gets one, with Enjolras echoing, "No. But I want the key." Courfeyrac hands it over and Enjolras stuffs it into his pants pocket, where it's hidden and safe by the pearl.

The pearl. Memories swarm his vision. The 75th games on the beach, Grantaire passing Enjolras this same pearl while the sun set. Grantaire's kiss. Grantaire dying right in front of him. Grantaire being resuscitated.

Enjolras shakes his head. "Let's keep moving."

Bahorel pries open a door to the maintenance shaft. They follow it all way down to the underground city, which, compared to the shiny, colorful Capitol, is absolutely dreary.

They plummet into their own personal death trap.

* * *

Enjolras is shaken awake, told he's on Grantaire watch, and then given a can of soup.

After scraping the food into his mouth, his eyes fall on Grantaire, and notice he's awake.

"Have you ate anything yet?" he asks him, and Grantaire gives a shake of his head. Enjolras passes over a can of soup, and Grantaire eats it all, clearly starving. "Can I ask you something?"

Grantaire nods, cautiously. "What is it?"

"Do you really not believe in anything?"

Grantaire is silent for a few moment, and just about when Enjolras thinks he's not going to get an answer, Grantaire breaks the unbearable silence.

"No, I believe in some things," he whispers, trying not to wake the others.

"Like what?"

"You."

Enjolras is the one to be silent now, and it drags on for what seems like an hour. Grantaire disrupts it again.

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he says, voice quiet.

"Real," Enjolras whispers, and then adds to it. "That's just what we do. Protect each other."

He drifts off to sleep before Enjolras can get a reply.

* * *

One sound. One hiss of a breath. One syllable after another and after another. One name.

" _Enjolras_."

It repeats.

" _Enjolras_."

That's when Combeferre wakes the others, telling them all that it's time to go.

Grantaire's lips are barely moving, his chest barely rising for breath, but it's coming from him. The hiss of Enjolras' name is spilling from his lips. Grantaire begins to stir, and Enjolras raises his bow, aiming it at Grantaire's temple.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire shouts, sitting up, eyes wide. "You have to leave, they're coming. Get out, take the others, go."

His voice is alarmed, but not completely mad. Enjolras pauses. "Why? What's happening?"

"They're coming, they're going to kill you," says Grantaire. " _Run_ , get out!"

"It's after me," Enjolras says. "I'll stay here, you guys go."

"We're you squad," says Bahorel.

"And your friends," Courfeyrac adds.

"I'm not leaving you," Combeferre says.

Enjolras looks at them, and again, he feels that twist of guilt.

"Then we need to leave," Enjolras orders. "We'll go north, through the tunnels."

Outside the machine room, the hissing gets closer. Enjolras can smell the mutts, that scent of blood and roses. He gags, and they all put their gas masks on.

"They'll probably kill anyone, not just Enjolras," Bahorel says.

Here they are again, people dying because of him. Losing their lives for him.

"Let me go alone, I'll lead them off," Enjolras says.

"We're wasting time, we need to go!" says Combeferre.

"Listen," Grantaire whispers.

" _Enjolras_."

He shakes, trying to get away from them, from the mutts. Grantaire grabs Enjolras' arm, leading him to the stairwell not far from where they are.

"This way!" Grantaire shouts, motioning for everyone to come along. They all climb the stairs, and then the ladder, making it into another shaft, this one narrow and vertical, shooting straight up, leading to one of the Capitol's apartments.

"Everyone okay?" Combeferre asks, quietly. They're all breathing, hard. Sound of blood rushing in their ears blocks out the hisses from below.

"Leave me," Grantaire whispers, his voice hoarse. "Go on ahead."

"No, you're coming," Enjolras tells him.

Grantaire shakes his head, voice frantic. "I can't do it, I'm _losing_ it. I'll go mad like the mutts. Leave me. I'll kill you, Enjolras."

It finally comes down to it. After all this time, after all the fighting, Enjolras still has to kill Grantaire. Grantaire will still die. Gillenormand will still win. Anger and hatred pulses through his veins.

It's probably suicide, he'll die for doing this. But it's the only thing he can think of, it's the only option.

Enjolras leans in and kisses Grantaire, lips colliding in a mess of teeth and blood and dirt. He keeps his lips pressed there until he has to breathe, and even then he stays longer than he should. Hands slide to clasp Grantaire's.

"Don't let him take you from me," Enjolras murmurs against Grantaire's mouth. His hand clenches around Grantaire's fingers. "Stay with me."

Grantaire's pupils, which were blown wide, contract to pinpoints and then go back to normal.

"Always," Grantaire whispers, agreeing as he squeezes his fingers. Enjolras helps him up and climbs the last ladder, everyone at his heels.

There is a woman waiting for him. Her ridiculous hair and expensive clothes anger Enjolras, and the last emotion she feels is fear before he shoots her through the heart.

* * *

“We’re splitting up,” Enjolras says. This time no one argues.

Grantaire is left with a nightlock pill and a gun, swearing to only use it if her absolutely has to. Courfeyrac leaves with Bahorel, both dressed in disguises. Combeferre and Enjolras depart and hour later, weapons concealed under their coats.

Outside, wind and snowflakes bite at their exposed skin.

A little girl looks at Enjolras, and Combeferre is set on edge. Just when Combeferre makes a move to tell him this, gunfire rips through the crowd.

The little girl dies.

Screams pierce the air and Enjolras starts to run to Gillenormand’s mansion, Combeferre on his heels.

“Once we start shooting,” Combeferre says, “that’s it. Everyone will know it’s you.”

“We’ve got to get to Gillenormand,” Enjolras says, forcefully.

Combeferre presses his lips into a thin line, then saying, “Fine. I’ll cover you.”

Enjolras runs again, Combeferre shielding his body.

And when Combeferre is shot in the leg, Joly screams from far away. He’s in the white medic’s uniform, rushing over to them.

Then there is bombs. Fire. Explosions everywhere. Enjolras is burning. His hair, his clothes, his skin.

Joly says they’ll be okay as Enjolras slowly slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

There is pain everywhere.

Enjolras remembers little of what happened. They split up. He went to the President's mansion. Bombs were dropped. He was on fire.

The doctors tell him that he is in Gillenormand's house, the famous Presidential mansion. The doctors also tell him that Grantaire is recovering in another section of the hospital. The doctors do not tell him that Grantaire is unstable cannot see anyone right now. Enjolras doesn't ask, either.

He stays quiet. He does not know if Combeferre made it out of the bombs. He does not know if Courfeyrac made it, either. He does not know anything. Right now, all he does is rest.

Enjolras doesn't speak to anyone. His lips stay closed.

He is badly burned. He is the Mockingjay and he has no wings. This is all he knows.

The doctors tell him to list things, so he does. In his head.

_My name is Enjolras. I am eighteen years old. I was born in District 12. There isn't a District 12 anymore. I am the Mockingjay. I brought down the Capitol. President Gillenormand hates me. I will kill him. The Hunger Games will be over._

He lists the things that he knows, nothing else. When questions pop into his mind, he starts over from the beginning.

He's given morphling, and when it courses through his veins, he allows the questions to come. Those are the worst times.

 _Is Combeferre okay? Is he with Jehan? Courfeyrac, Marius, are they safe? Is everyone with the one they love? Not me_ , he thinks. _Not me_.

Yes, those are the worst.

Enjolras finds himself wandering down the hallway, until he smells it. Roses. _Blood_. He awaits the mutts, confidently. Until he realizes there are no mutts. This is not the arena. This is not the Capitol.

He stops at a door, and there are two guards in front of it.

"You can't go in there," they say.

"Yes," a voice from behind him replies. "He can."

Enjolras can't place the voice at first, but it sounds familiar.

"Let him go," it says, and when Enjolras turns around, he sees that it's Mabeuf.

They lower their guns, and Enjolras steps in the room.

He is hit by a sudden wave of nausea.

Roses, all colors, row after row of blue and orange and pink. White is the last color, at the very end of the greenhouse.

"What a lovely surprise." The voice is so evil that is makes Enjolras' stomach lurch. Enjolras doesn't answer, only turns so he's facing the President. "I'm glad you've found your way to my...holding area."

Enjolras stays quiet. He is in the President's prison, the President's cell. He somehow feels like he's trespassing.

"It's my fault you're so badly burned, I apologize. I did not seem to grasp Lamarque's plan so quickly. To let the Capitol and the districts destroy one another, and then Lamarque would take over." He pauses. "I was watching you, Mockingjay. That's where my fault is. I was watching you and not Lamarque, and look where we are." Another pause. "We've been played for fools, haven't we?"

Enjolras speaks for the first time since he's come back. "I don't believe you."

Gillenormand shakes his hand, feigning disappointment. "Oh, Mister Enjolras. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other."

* * *

They are waiting for him. Crowds of people are outside Gillenormand's mansion, waiting for the Mockingjay himself to shoot the arrow into his heart.

Enjolras raises his bow, aiming it at the rose in his lapel.

He can feel the bow coming to life in his hands, and he draws the bowstring back, positioning it at his chin.

The look on Gillenormand's face is amusment.

Enjolras points the arrow upwards. Releases the string. President Lamarque falls over the side of the balcony and hits the ground. Dead.

There are gasps, and then people are shouting. Enjolras can't hear much, only the laughter that escapes Gilenormand. The President is trampled to death a few moments later, while guards try to usher Enjolras inside.

"Goodbye," Enjolras whispers to the bow. He feels it go still, not humming and alive anymore. The last time.

Enjolras brings his arm up to expose the patch on his uniform, the one that holds the little purple pill they named Nightlock. Enjolras sinks his teeth in, trying to find it. Instead, his teeth sink into flesh. He pulls back, confused, finding himself looking into Grantaire's eyes, a determined expression in them. His hand is clamped over Enjolras' patch, and there are teeth marks in it.

"Let me _go_ ," Enjolras snaps, trying to tug his arm free.

"I can't," he says. "You die, I die. That's how it works. We protect each other."

That's the last thing he says before Enjolras is pushed into a room, holding only a bed with a thin mattress.

It's the same room he shared with Grantaire, the night before their 75th games. Enjolras would know this room anywhere.

Enjolras does not give up. Even after the first, boring, lifeless day. He thrashes on the windows he that he knows open, that's how he got onto the roof.

Eventually, he just waits. They won't let him starve to death.

This theory is proven true the moment Combeferre opens the door.

"Come on, we're going home," he says. Home? There's no home.

He follows Combeferre silently, walking to a hovercraft. Myriel sits across from him, a smile on his face. Enjolras hasn't seen a real smile in a while.

"You must have so many questions," Myriel says. Enjolras doesn't ask, but Myriel answers them anyway.

After Lamarque died, there was chaos. Gillenormand died amongst the panic. Mabeuf was chosen as President immediately. Myriel is now in charge of broadcasts. The trial was the first thing to be aired. Enjolras was released, under the condition that he check in with Joly, either by phone or in person. Most people are coming to live in 12. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Jehan, Marius, Bahorel, Bossuet, Musichetta, Joly, Eponine, Cosette. Grantaire. Grantaire will live next to Enjolras and breathe the same air as him and be safe. They all will be safe.

"Are you preparing for another war, Myriel?" Enjolras asks.

"No, no. Now is a time for peace," he answers.

* * *

Enjolras wakes up from a nightmare. The dead, shoveling dirt in his grave. Him at the bottom. Azelma shovels dirt. Cabuc shovels dirt. Nameless tributes that had lives and familes.

Pale morning light seeps through the windows as he runs down the stairs, through the hallway, and out the door. He turns, facing the woods behind his house. Maybe he can scream at the dead.

Enjolras runs fingers through his matted, blonde, curly hair as his eyes settle on Grantaire.

"You're back," he says.

"Yeah," Grantaire replies. "They wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday. I would've come sooner, but, you know. Burn scars, damaged tissue." He flashes Enjolras a grin. "Failing liver."

"Are the others--"

"They're coming back soon," he answers. His eyes no longer look tortured.

Enjolras rushes back into the house. Outside air has clung to him, the scent of roses burrowing into his skin. He steps into the bathroom, scrubbing his skin so that the smell will be released from his pores. The burn scars are pink and sensitive, so once he's reassured the roses are gone, he pats them dry.

Combeferre has let himself in and cooks him and Enjolras a meal. They eat it silently, and Combeferre lets himself back out, giving Enjolras space and time.

Courfeyrac comes by to make sure he's okay and living. Enjolras tells him that he's fine, and then he leaves.

Enjolras feels isolated and alone yet he has no desire to reach out to people.

* * *

Grantaire and Enjolras fall back into place again. Grantaire paints and drinks while Enjolras reads and writes the plants he finds in the woods, for Combeferre.

It's comforting, the warm presence he falls asleep to and the smile he wakes up to.

More often than not, Grantaire clutches the back of a chair, anger flashing in his eyes as he remembers. The Games, and all the cruel things Enjolras has said to him, and every reason why he should hate Enjolras. All Enjolras can do is wrap his arms around him and pray he won't drink himself into oblivion tonight.

Enjolras needs Grantaire, though. He needs his arguments and his rebuttals and he needs Grantaire to criticize his every move. He realizes this, now.

So, when Grantaire whispers. "You love me. Real or not real?"

Enjolras tells him the truth. "Real."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was easy to understand, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you have any questions or concerns, shoot me a message on my [tumblr](http://www.prouvairie.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading!  
> I do not own Les Miserables or The Hunger Games. I am not Victor Hugo or Suzanne Collins. A bunch of quotes were used from Mockingjay, I wanted to make it as true to the story as possible.  
> I think everyone was a little out of character, and I apologize, but that's what had to happen to make the fic true to the book.  
> Again, thank you for reading!


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